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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314765">Beginning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/pseuds/BrytteMystere'>BrytteMystere</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Fae!Claire AU [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A bit gore but not too much (imaginery more than anything), Black Jack Randall is His Own Warning, COVID-19 is sure making me write, Dream or Real? Here I Go Again, F/M, Fae!Claire Beauchamp, Gen, Glamour &amp; other subtle Fae Fuckery, Poor Claire is so confused, Yes those are Vampyr references</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:08:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,978</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/pseuds/BrytteMystere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire Beauchamp Randall awakes in a world not her own... and meets her husband's doppelgänger.</p><p>Something sinister hides beneath the surface.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser (background)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Fae!Claire AU [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HOW DARE I to not mention my awesome friends, Carradee and made_of_lions_and_wolves333 before?<br/>These two MAGNIFICENT LADIES have tolerated with astounding applomb my endless, cyclic Outlander idea rants.<br/>Honestly couldn't do this without them. Keep safe, you two!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Everything</em> inside her hurt, and the endless drumming of her ears wasn't helping. Claire was freezing, still unable to open her eyes, but knowledgeable enough of how it felt like to sleep on the bare ground to have some guesses.</p><p>There was a lingering buzz, in the background, and she may have cared if every nerve in her body wasn't competing on which could send more pain signals within a fraction of a second. The closest she'd ever felt to the headache that was currently hammering her skull was that one period of time she'd stayed awake for six days straight thanks to copious amounts of coffee, just to abruptly be cut off it as rationing got more strict. Dr. Reid had scolded her in whispers, as he carried her to his office and let her there to sleep, but even what little morphine he'd been merciful enough to give her hadn't done much. There was simply too much, everywhere, and the dosage too small to manage it.</p><p><em> 'Yes, well, </em> <b> <em>that</em> </b> <em> but magnified, damn it all…' </em></p><p>She would have liked to curl up into a ball, but the mere thought of moving seemed to intensify the torture she was enduring. She mentally begged for sleep, a relief, <em> anything</em>, and as her mind at last gave into unconsciousness, all she could give was a relieved sigh.</p><hr/><p>There was a beast, gnawing at her stomach. The sort of <em> need </em> she'd only experienced at the front, when the war had prolonged far longer than expected, and the cook's attempts to spread their resources out to last were almost too repulsive to bear.</p><p>
  <em> What good was it to have a full pot of soup, if most ended up barfing it up? 'Milk' if it just made them all sick? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She longed for Frank's sparse visits, in between the horror of the butchered soldiers she laboured to keep alive, for he usually managed to sneak her something and things had often become dire enough for her to have to trade kisses for all sort of supplies, nevermind food. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dr. Reid's distant vigilance kept things together, of course. No nurse had to fear excessive demands with him around to back them up, but… Claire was tired. </em>
</p><p>She was tired still, and ravenous. Her every limb trembled, and the otherwise light weight of her own clothing seemed to drag down her weakened body. But strange things happen, when one reaches a certain level of hunger, this Claire knew too well. That last strength pushing the body towards nourishment.</p><p>Not that she needed to make much effort. There was a warm, solid presence by her side, and before she was even fully aware of what had been put in her hands, her teeth were already biting into it.</p><p>The meat was rather hard to chew, raw as it was, but it was warm and its very pulse helped her. She sunk her teeth and sucked the sauce off, not caring about the metallic taste of it, or how truly hard it was to bite down to size. She'd had to eat many far more disgusting things, and with the absolute freshness of the meat, she wasn't overly worried about it being spoiled.</p><p>Not that her hunger would have let her care about it, if it had been.</p><p>
  <em> "Take yer time, Sassenach…" </em>
</p><p>The voice by her side had been addressing her for a while now, whispering soothing nothings to her ear, but Claire had finished her meal before any of it registered. Her hands were trembling again, sticky and painfully empty, even as her teeth worked hard to chew her last bites. Large, warm hands caressed her arms, bringing her against a firm, warm chest, and she took in deep breaths as she forced her meal to go down her esophagus, doing her utmost to keep her stomach from revolting and throwing out the nourishment she so desperately needed.</p><p>Those warm, gentle fingers caressed her hair, her back, love and care in each delicate movement. And her trembling body, eventually, regained a measure of composure.</p><p>He smelled like horse, and man, and <em> trees</em>. Not a combination she'd been around, or at least with his level of cleanliness, in a long while. As her eyes half opened at last, she confirmed he was, in fact, shirtless, and the light hair on his chest was an unusual shade of red. Like a fox pelt, intense and golden where the sunlight hit it.</p><p>His skin was slightly tanned, but still clearly paler where his shirt had protected him beneath the sun. This, of course, just made the blood all the more notable in contrast.</p><p>Her fingers were on him in a second, looking for wounds were her eyes had detected none, to abruptly realize all she was doing was adding more blood to his skin. She wasn't wounded, either. One of the very first things nurses learned at the Pembroke was how to recognize injuries in themselves.</p><p>No.</p><p>Her fingers were spreading blood, sticky and mostly cooled by then, coagulating on her skin, because they had been <em> coated </em> in it. As had her mouth, were her face had pressed against his chest. Which… made a certain amount of sense, when she recalled the lingering taste on her tongue, the pain in her teeth from the effort the raw meat had required.</p><p>
  <em> 'Too much blood. There's too much blood.' </em>
</p><p>There was something else, nearby. A coldness she'd dismissed both in her hunger and in the desperate need for comfort that had followed its satiated status. Something that had become colder and colder by her ankle, harder, unnerving. Claire didn't really want to look.</p><p>As long as she remained in this Scotsman's arms, as long as she kept her face to his chest, her eyes closed, she would he spared the horror awaiting her. The dread overwhelming her senses was enough forewarning.</p><p><em> 'I'm </em> <b> <em>not</em> </b> <em> a coward.' </em></p><p>Dr. Swansea had told her once, that her inquisitive nature would get her in trouble one day.</p><p>She recalled that moment perfectly, from the wisdom-weary tone of his voice to the shameful regret hiding in his eyes. How Dr. Reid had tightened his fists by the door, eyes avoiding the Pembroke's director.</p><p><em> 'You can't help but look. You </em> <b> <em>have to</em> </b> <em> .' </em></p><p>Claire didn't want to. Still, she pulled away from her Scotsman, and turned to the corpse.</p><hr/><p>A scream choked on her throat, and she retched dryly for what felt like an eternity, before her heartbeat stopped booming on her ears.</p><p>Her hands were covered in flaking, dried blood, and so was most of the upper part of her dress. Her face. Her lips. <em> Her tongue. </em></p><p>She retched again, desperately wanting to wash away the taste of blood on her tongue, and in her desperation, tried rising far too quickly. Her legs buckled and gave up, trembling far too much to hold her weight.</p><p>No matter. No matter. No matter.</p><p>If she couldn't run, if she couldn't walk, she would crawl her way out. There was no way she would stay in that place, surrounded by the buzzing stones, by the ghost of a corpse that wasn't, <em> couldn't </em> be real and yet <em> was</em>, if not physically, vividly enough in her mind to demand her immediate distancing from the accursed place.</p><p>Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall crawled out from Craigh Na Dun, as far as arms and tremorous legs got her, before falling down the hill. She didn't mind the stones she rolled over, or what branches left tiny cuts on her skin. The dirt that clung to her dress, to her hair.</p><p>She was getting away, putting distance between herself and what could only be, <em> would </em> only ever be, a nightmare.</p><p>Once inertia slowed down enough for her body to stop moving, now merely limp against the ground, she tried to rise again, slowly. Her legs and arms trembled, her knees felt weak, but after some uncertain steps, and some falls, she managed to stay on her feet.</p><p>There were louder noises now. Shots, whatever remained of rationality acknowledged. Claire couldn't on her life worry about it.</p><p>Red-clad figures danced at the edge of her eyesight, and her lips tightened as she tried not to dry heave again.</p><p>
  <em> 'Get away. Get away. Get away from it!' </em>
</p><p>She couldn't find the road, but by that point she was thoroughly lost and even the daylight couldn't clear her way back home. She was running, senseless, body moving more by instinct now than reason, for reason had abandoned her. And so, she was soon by a stream.</p><p>And He. Was. Right. There.</p><p>There was no air in her lungs. She knew her face was probably quite ridiculous, at that moment. The blood certainly wouldn't help. But he… he was <b> <em>right there.</em> </b></p><p>Safe. Whole.</p><p>Weirdly dressed, yes, but <em> still. </em></p><p>He'd been crouching by the stream, hand on the water, calm as you please. His gaze had focused on her in an instant, but he hadn't moved to attack her. There was no horror in his eyes, no hatred in his face.</p><p>Curious, mayhaps.</p><p>She could feel his gaze, piercing her to the bone, and his only reaction to her knees giving up on her, to the astounded surprise his blood-splattered wife was definitely gazing back at him with, was a slight rise if his right eyebrow.</p><p>"<em>F-Frank</em>!?"</p><p>Her voice hadn't broken so badly since the very end of the war. He was there, so painfully close a few steps would let her embrace him, and yet she didn't dare to move. His gaze remained focused on hers, questioning, but she had no more words.</p><p>The reality before her was too… too merciful. Hadn't she felt like dying, not that long before? Had she not seen him, there at Craigh Na Dun? Been dry heaving over and over again, trying to…</p><p>He rose, slow and graceful as a cat, hand on his sheathed sword, as she drank in his every movement.</p><p>His coat, red as freshly spilled blood, made a startling contrast with his pants, but this Claire noticed only in passing. He was standing before her now, <em> safe</em>. <em> Alive</em>. It boggled her mind.</p><p>Her hands trembled still, and Claire had never lost control of her body as she'd been, since that thrice damned nightmare.</p><p>Now, all she could do, was depend on the tree at her back to rise, as he approached her. Less than a meter now between them.</p><p>One of her hands rose, without her full permission, wavering on the air between them, afraid to truly breach it for fear of finding it all a mirage, born from despair and a grief that still threatened to render her quite unable to breathe.</p><p>"Frank, <em> Frank</em>, you're safe!"</p><p>Her voice was weak then, frail, as consistent as candy floss, and she could feel the tears falling on her cheeks, mostly by the sudden lack of dryness there, while the rest of her face still felt unnervingly covered in dry blood.</p><p>She took a step forwards without even realizing, distantly aware that he was talking to her, and how his voice sounded <em> so alike </em> and yet strangely <em> off </em> in a way she couldn't quite determine, close enough now to feel his warmth. Her eyes were still on his, as she watched the neutral caution shift into interest, the sort of look she so fondly recalled from whenever she'd done something that attracted his attention in just the right way…</p><p>And then her hand meet his cheek.</p><hr/><p>She wasn't quite sure what had happened. Her skin had met his, just an instant, he was <em> so close</em>, and she'd been so scared, but there was little softness to be found. His skin felt strangely leathery beneath her fingertips, even as close shaven as he was.</p><p>Touching Frank had always been comforting. Between strange, terrifying dreams and the ghost of a Scotsman she couldn't quite shake, all she'd longed for was that easy, effortless comfort. To hear his laughter again, maybe. She'd heard it recently, she was certain, but it was already banishing from memory. Yet…</p><p>She'd shivered. From head to toes, utter revulsion had taken hold of her, muscles trying to move away without any input from her conscious mind, and for the life of her, she didn't know <em> why</em>.</p><p>Shortly after, as his whole body tackled her against the tree and his hands tightened across her neck, she would dizzily wonder if it's been some sort of danger warning.</p><p>She wanted to fight, to <em> breathe</em>, but vivid memories of his heart on her hands, beating like a distressed hummingbird, broke her resolve with each glance at those eyes of his.</p><p>There was hatred in there, an endless pool of outraged wrath that could and would drown her in its depths.</p><p>"N-No," she pleaded, short fingernails hardly scratching his skin. "F-Frank, Frank, I'm… I'm Claire, <em> Claire</em>, please…"</p><p>Had she had any air left for additional words, it would have escaped her when he shook her and slammed her back against the tree.</p><p>"You've lied to me, <em> madam.</em>"</p><p>She didn't understand him. Her world was becoming dark at the edges and the dizziness was too strong to ignore. Her lungs were burning. But it was his face, <em> his face</em>, and despite everything, her heart couldn't take the idea of Frank - <em> her Frank </em> - hating her to the point of such violence.</p><p>"Who. Are. <em> You</em>."</p><p>Brief relief was followed with a sharper pain, for he threw her onto the ground, unsheathing his sword in one move before sinking the weapon right by her neck. Whatever chance she'd had to regain some air was taken away by the harsh impact onto the ground, which left her gasping, wheezing, well before his added weight on top of her worsened the problem even further.</p><p>His fingers had torn into her hair, twisting her neck closer to the edge of his sword. Claire was still too busy trying to get air back into her lungs to care for the perils of that sharpened edge.</p><p>"Claire, Claire Beauchamp," she gasped at last, when actually saying words was even minimally possible. "My, ah, my husband's… Frank, a teacher…"</p><p>Her breath was still irregular, chest rising as much as it could to take in as much air as she could, even as it brought her to his every time. She was probably hyperventilating, panic flooding her veins as her dazed mind tried to understand what could possibly be going on. He'd been… he'd been so gentle, at first. So cautious to avoid startling her, even as she probably scared him with her nonsensical ramblings.</p><p>What could have shifted so quickly? She would have loved some time to take in what the everloving hell was going on, but his fingers tightened on her curls even further, bringing her close enough to sword to slightly cut her, and his rage was akin to an aura blasting her with the strength of a bomb's shockwave.</p><p>"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Frank Beauchamp, the teacher's wife." He closed in then, taking her from the edge of his sword just to lock her eyes on his, so close he could have kissed her, had he not seemed to go into a murderous mode. "<b><em>You must take me the fool.</em> </b> You'll be well advised to tell me <em> exactly who you are </em> and <em> why </em> you are here."</p><p>She didn't understand. Her head hurt, her neck hurt, and the man she'd thought her husband may as well have been an eerie doppelgänger, for as much as they looked alike, Frank had never, would never, have attacked her such.</p><p>No. This had to be another nightmare, a dreadful nightmare, and maybe she hadn't even awakened when she thought she had.</p><p>Maybe she was losing her mind.</p><p><em> 'But </em> <b> <em>this</em> </b> <em> is not my husband.' </em></p><p>No ties nor promises connected them, and she couldn't say how she knew something that in a blink was as obvious as the colour of her hair, the blood on her hands.</p><p>Her hands tightened by her sides, gravel and earth between her fingers, as his own tightened again against her hair. With the swiftness granted by despair, and the pure, intense need to <em> survive</em>, she closed her eyes and shoved the earth on his face, taking advantage of his instinctual move to protect his face to push away his sword, and twirl away from him.</p><p>Not that it got her anywhere far.</p><p>She'd barely crawled a few steps away from his hold when his hand was back on her hair, his body pushing her face down into the ground as his knees pushed her own apart, trapping her by the very skirt of the ridiculous getup she'd awoken in.</p><p>Her senses were returning, pained as she was, and she screamed and scratched at him, tried to free herself with all she had, but he outclassed her in weight and had her pinned beneath him.</p><p>"Get <b> <em>off me</em></b>, you <b> <em>bastard!</em></b><em>" </em></p><p>She was well aware of the danger in her situation. She had to get out, away, and her resources were pretty much inexistent.</p><p>She needed someone, <em> anyone</em>, to help her. As much as it rakled.</p><p>
  <em> 'Please… please… help me…' </em>
</p><p>She would think of it, at a much later date. How perfect the timing had been, for her saviour to reach her just when the monster masquerading as her husband prepared to… to…</p><p>No. A Highlander rescued her, and took her away from there. To a little shed, as Frank's doppelgänger lay unconscious on the woods. To a bunch of men who suspected her of some crime she didn't know, and a Scotsman with hair like a fox's red pelt, and a dislocated shoulder.</p><p>
  <em> Jamie Mctavish, whose voice was so strangely familiar even if she hadn't met him ever before. </em>
</p><hr/><p>Claire didn't know this, wouldn't know this for some time… but the Highlander, Murtagh, was taking her to her destiny.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Keep safe everyone, really. Dare I ask what you thought of this one? Did you notice anything... strange?<br/>0_~</p></blockquote></div></div>
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